


god in dirty faces

by edilioooo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Activism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Concerts, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Human Trafficking, Illegal Activities, Legal Drama, M/M, PTSD RECOVERY, Photographer Dean, Photography, Pole Dancing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, US Legalization of Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:59:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edilioooo/pseuds/edilioooo
Summary: Dean Winchester's project sends him into deep, dark places, but he'd never expect to be caught up in this.Or, in which Dean finds his life purpose and Sam finds his, solace give or take.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean strolled down the street with a swagger that he'd cultivated  
under the premise of protection. Tracks were probably the most  
dangerous places he'd ever lurked, and the worst thing is that it's  
his profession. He cannot turn back nor can he halt; his only option  
is to press forward and appear unflinching. His camera felt heavy in  
his jacket, and his gait felt synthetic and poisonous. What was he  
doing here, on these streets, among these people? Breathing in these  
sins, this pain?

There's a girl exiting a bar up the street. Clad in barely-there  
shorts, a crop top, and hickeys, the sunlight gleaming off her red  
hair makes her appear ironically etheral. Dean's camera is out before  
his conscious mind can even register the action. He moves to an  
inconspicuous tree in hopes no one will notice or care (they don't)  
that he's taking a picture of this angelic form. Her face is upturned  
to the heavens, arms wrapped around herself to hold off the cold.  
She's new to the life- probably calls it 'the game' still- her face is all innocence, porcelain skin and vain hope. She's just  
starting out, that much is glaringly obvious. She probably calls it  
the game still, has yet to realize it's a life. Sad. One day, Dean  
darkly muses, he could see her maybe several states over and looking  
completely different. His stomach twists. Maybe, just maybe, it's time  
to go back home (his temporary home, that is, Motel 6 room 129,) but  
that's not an option. He needs this, this sun-kissed scene. His flight  
out is tomorrow.

Before the girl moves, he snaps the moment into eternal life. One day  
soon, people will behold this picture and see a sliver of humanity  
just like Dean does. They'll see enough to know that these people are  
complex and human just like them. It's not an easy feat, taking all  
these pictures, but that thought makes it worth it. People will gain a  
new perspective through this project, and maybe they'll be one step  
closer to real progression.

Dean feels weighted by sorrow as the girl walks off to her next,  
indeterminate destination, as it is truly cold, but he quells the  
guilt under the premise of his help risking her harm later. A little  
cold will be nothing compared to what may happen if Dean makes her  
stray from her directives.

With a sigh, he disregards his latest photographic subject and chooses  
to explore the bar she'd just exited. It must, he thinks to himself,  
contain some shocking thing these people dare call normal. With every  
picture he takes, he'll have a new suspect, someone for the police to  
detain. Already there's been a few spots shut down because of Dean's  
anonymous tips, and he doesn't plan on stopping.

Switching his camera for his phone- the camera is too conspicuous- is  
the only physical preparation he'll have to do for this. The rest is  
merely mental. He adopts that cocky swagger, that little smirk  
(despite his stomach churning) at a few girls.

To one, he gifts a couple hundreds. It'll at least get her to her  
expected revenue, and she could return 'home.'

The bar was a seedy, dark-lit place, crawling with shadows. There were men sporting both males and females, girls  
and boys stowed away in the deepest crevices. It's the kind of  
establishment that knows no law and no moral, which makes Dean want to  
throw up all over his shoes. He does not, however, even if he does  
have to swallow down bile.

There is one place, in the front far corner, that has been blessedly  
left open, and Dean jumps at the opportunity to claim it. From there,  
he could discreetly get footage of everything from the children in the  
back to the bruised woman in the front. This would be a true  
eye-opener, Dean knew. This would speak volumes.

As a twenty-year-old, he could not purchase alcohol, which pained him  
greatly. He'd kill for some whiskey neat right about now, especially  
as a teenage boy- wiry, staring at his shoes- walked in with an older  
man- burly, authoritatively staring ahead.

The boy looked back at him for a fleeting moment, but it was enough  
for Dean to get the gist: Get me out. Please.  
Dean was too anxious and nauseated to attempt any contact until a half hour and some photos later. This time, the pair came right up to the bar, right near Dean. So close that the kid could inch toward him.

But he didn't.

His.. Pimp, maybe? No, the label made him sick. His guy- soften the words to ease his gut- quickly got caught up with the barista. Dean's shot.

"Hey, uh.. Kid." The boy's eyes flicker to his. Dean gives him a gently smile. "You're not enjoying this are you?"

He seems to recoil, almost afraid, and Dean tries to smooth over his words. "It's okay, I'm not... I won't." The tension in the teen's shoulders loosens as he carefully regards Dean. "Why do you wanna know?" He asks, voice trembling with something Dean can't distinguish. "Because I can get you out. No legal trouble, we can just blow this place." He mends quickly. Little by little, the boy's starting to look hopeful. "You don't even owe me anything. Would you like that?" The boy nods, but a hand sliding around his waist makes him fall silent. Thankfully, it was just an absentminded gesture, nothing that meant their words were heard, but it still upset Dean to see the groping, to see the boy's body react with something feigned.

The poor kid being led away one scotch later was a welcoming lessen in stress for Dean, but not for long.

Dean was almost overwhelmed at the request. Him? Help someone directly? It must be the bravado coming off on people. But, of course, he wasn't about to turn the kid down. His big hazel eyes were troubled and scared, the haunted house and the spectator all in one. He couldn't stand the thought of someone running their fingers through his shaggy hair, tugging it to tilt his head up like the man with him had just done. He'd never seen someone meet his gaze in the presence of someone in authority. He assumed it was due to the rules he'd learned in a particular Vegas alley network; they didn't want to choose up. But the kid.. He'd seemed to know Dean wasn't here to fuck. And he'd shown him a vulnerable sliver of hope. That thought, it made Dean's heart swell and shatter all at once. He had no choice. He'd get the kid outta that hellhole.

Dean needed to get the sick from his gut first, though, which made ginger ale a given. He got that and some fries, scarfed it down while trying not to think about going to the back of the bar, where there were a few kids along with the one that trusted him to help him.

The fries went down dry even with the ginger ale. No amount of swallowing could make eating comfortable. Painstakingly, he dipped fry after fry into ketchup, then drank some. Fry, sip, fry, sip.

Twelve sets later, he tried to meet the boy's gaze. It was subtle enough, the attempts, but eventually he'd gotten a returning gaze. "Tonight?" Dean mouths.

The boy looks at him, confused and a bit nervous.

"Should I get you out now?" He tries.

That gets a spark of recognition, and a slight shake of his head. Then the guy with him captured his attention, and Dean couldn't watch that.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had once found himself in a similar situation. 

It was in the dead heat of south Florida summer, a beautiful vacation spent with a beautiful girl who cared nothing of the beach and chemical coffee. She liked winding through the city and a band about chemical romances. It's her dirty little secret, she'd said to him, voluminous auburn curls blowing carelessly in the wind, people don't like you if you like that music. Dean shrugged, didn't look it up because she made it sound like he wouldn't like it. Her name, she'd lied blatantly, was Juliet. He couldn't resist calling himself Romeo. Romeo and Juliet wound their way through Plantation, the local giving the vacationer a full tour. Her favorite, she'd noted many times at the place, had been the Swap Shop. The perfect blend, in her opinion, of quality goods, sketchy outdoor sales, and even sketchier fruit. Dean believed her about the fruit; nobody really was interested in produce as much as the synthetic smoothies. But then again, where were the coolers? They were all just stored in wooden boxes. Warm fruit is sketchy fruit. His Juliet slowly became a real lover rather than just a friend with benefits. They started by just making out in the car, then having sex and eventually, over a two week fucking period, making love. That's when Juliet held her Romeo's hand for the first time, and they didn't stop until Dean knew of her real dirty little secret. They were at a sushi joint, Dean pretending not to have chopstick malfunctions while his girlfriend dipped her California rolls methodically into soy sauce. They were peacefully elated, eating quality food and holding hands- then things began to fall downhill. A rowdy group came into the restaurant, some men and younger women who teetered on the edge of being teenage. Dead payed them no mind but obliged when Juliet requested they return to their temporary apartment. Her voice conveyed no anxieties, yet Dean found out anyway: she wanted to go because of the group. "There's my pretty whore?" A man purred from behind them. "How about you come with me, it's time to come back." His voice was laced with such authority that Dean was struck to begin with, and might have actually gone into shock when Juliet said, "Yes, sir." Without another word or a glance from the girl he thought he knew, he turned and bolted for his car, his salvation, and drove the distance to Kansas in silence. This time, Dean proclaimed, will be different. The boy would come out of there safe, he could rely on Dean. If only he'd show. Dean lurked at that bar for two whole days, getting a grand total of sixteen pictures before he finally saw him again. He'd suspected that the kid wouldn't be returning on the second day, was standing to leave when he walked in, but with a different partner. Again, Dean felt the distinct urge to hurl. But, no, the discreet nod and pleading eyes of the boy made it explicitly clear that he had a mission. He'd do it right, unlike the fail he'd had years ago. Like the last time, Dean got fries and spoke to the kid through the rare, discreetly mouthed phrase. "Name?" Dean carefully forms each sound, exaggerated and painstaking. This was surreal in ways he couldn't distinguish as dream or nightmare. The other seems to be thinking the same thing, if his lip biting was anything to go by, but the kid's eyes gleam with something indescribably heart breaking, so he must be geared towards a dream. "Sam." A gentle smile was tossed to him, but only for a moment before it became risky and he had to look away. Oh yes, these fries are so interesting, less so than Sam being groped so close yet so far away. Today's guy is quite the handsy one; out of the corner of his eye, he can still see Sam squirming around in what's either faux pleasure or uncomfortable shifting. He hopes, for the boy's sake, it's the former. Dean eats his fries and sips at his ginger ale with fervor, trying to distract his panicked mind from nausea and Sam. They are separate and together and if he acknowledged either he'd surely be throwing up all over the place. He manages to hold off his thoughts, but two ginger ales later, it's proven impossible. He needs to act. With a confident stride, he rises from the chair he'd settled into and went right up to Sam and his.... The other one. "How much'll I have to pay ya? For the kid?" He asks, looks Sam up and down determinedly. The man huffs, regards Dean for a moment, then states gruffly, "How much you got?" Leafing through his worn wallet, Dean pulls out a few miraculous hundreds, won by hustling pool. "Three hundred." Oh, yeah, Dean thinks. I've got money. I'm fucking loaded, you can't resist this cash. The man seems to think, clearly in over his head with the large sum, then he chuckles and nods. "Been a pleasure doin' business with you." Triumphant and grinning, Dean leads a barely contained Sam out of the bar and into the free world. Definitely not like he did with his Juliet. "So, my name's Dean." He starts carefully once they're out in the chill, releases him. Sam is trembling, and when he finally manages to lift his eyes, they're dancing with the light of the streets. Dean is struck yet again with thoughts of Juliet and being her Romeo, how even in reality the lovers were tragically separated. He's pulled out of his reverie, thankfully, by Sam's careful, honeyed words, laced with something soft and vaguely southern. "Thank you, Dean. For, you know..." The gesture is enough to warm Dean's entire being. He shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugs slightly. "It's the least I could do. Wasn't just gonna let you suffer there." Sam sighs, air becoming a cloud in front of akin to the redhead earlier. "It's been a year. I... Would've gotten used to it." The urge to throw up returns again. Looking down at his shoes, Dean realizes this- the two of them- would be the exact thing he would've captured in his camera. He'd call it Continental Divide. "No, Sam." His voice wavers but somehow remains firm. "No one should have to go through that." "I did, though." Sam states, too matter of factly for Dean's liking, "I owed money." They go silent after that, too much depth in too little time. Tears were filling the kid's eyes, and Dean's hands shook in his jeans. What had he gotten himself into? He asks himself that over and over the whole walk back to the Motel 6, so many times that the words don't sound like words anymore. He never got an answer. There were two beds, one near the door and one near the air conditioning. Both were barren, as Dean wanted to give this kid a choice for once. "Take whichever." Dean declares, waiting patiently by the door. He gets a look of childlike glee, takes a moment before flopping down on the one closest to the AC. That's when Dean realizes: Sam doesn't have any belongings. He'd bring it up later, after they'd settled. "You need... Stuff." Dean says quietly, once Sam had feigned falling asleep and waking up. He didn't trust Dean, which was understandable and expected. "I guess so." He mumbles, turning over on his side face Dean. "No," Dean counters, both stern and soft at the same time. "You do, you don't guess, you need things. What do you need, Sam?" What occurred next was what Dean could only describe as a lesson in necessities. Sam, thankfully, rattled off some things, "Toothpaste, toothbrush..." But, obviously, he didn't get far. "Clothes?" Dean offers, biting his lip. Sam, thank god, nodded. "Clothes..." "A jacket." "Yeah, a jacket." A long pause occurred. Dean had run out of ideas, but then something startlingly basic and unmentioned came to mind. "A bag to put all that in." "That's all?" Sam asks tiredly, clearly spent now, enjoying the safety. Dean would have to fall asleep beforehand. Dean nods gently, settles against the low quality pillows. "Yeah, that's it. We'll go tomorrow." With that, he lets himself drift, pretends fantastically for as long as it took to ascertain that Sam was there and sleeping. Sam didn't sleep long. The thoughts of his past and uncertain future seemed to eat at his insides, leaving a physical pain. What did this guy want from him? Why was he doing this? How come he paid so much for him? Why are they in a motel when Dean so easily paid hundreds for him? Whywhywhywhy- He sits upright, lets out a breath. Dean would want sex one day, he knew it. After all, he is Dean's property. He did buy Sam. This was just a grace period and one day this would all come crashing down... Or would it? Dean seemed nice enough.. He'd just have to find out later, when they 'blew the place.' Were they leaving? Where were they going? Why were they going? Had he unintentionally chose up? Had he been deceived? No. He deserved hope for once, damn it. He needed it. And if he ended up sold out again, that'd be okay. The next morning was surreal. Again, Dean payed for him- when would he claim what he's buying?- and set him loose in the store with a promise that he'd call in thirty. Of course, Dean was somewhere in the store, but the fact that he was even allowed to be alone like this was puzzling. We'll blow this place, Dean had said... But he couldn't really mean that, right? He must want something from Sam, and he couldn't figure out what. Dean seemed to be playing a game, one Sam had never seen before in his time turning tricks. He must have come from some other city, and was picking him up. Bringing him somewhere. To brush off the crippling fear arising in him, he gets particular about toothpaste. Crest, Colgate? He didn't know. He went with a whitening toothpaste and a cheap dollar pack of brushes. The toothpaste was more expensive than his pimp ever would've condoned- six dollars! He got shirts and boxer briefs in the same isle- cheap packages of both- and found his way to pants. Two pairs of jeans and a pair of joggers would suffice, he figured. Especially if he was just going to be uprooted again. Dean found him after the exact half hour had passed, and together they got more things. Dean, he discovered, asked too many questions. "Do you like pop tarts? How about pizza, are you okay with microwaving some tonight? Did you get what you needed? You didn't get a jacket, how about we go get a couple?" Sam had nodded to pretty much everything, save to clarify that, no, he didn't mind soggy microwave pizza. Dean worried about this behavior; of course, the kid was bound to be shaken, but why was he suddenly so doubtful? What had he done wrong? The fact that he couldn't find anything was what scared him the most. Maybe he was a terrible person, or maybe Sam was just skittish today. He had no idea. Thing is, asking about it might make it worse, in his mind, so Dean felt utterly helpless. "Wanna get lunch?" Dean asked, squinting against the sun as they walked out into the parking lot. Sam still seemed oddly tense for a boy saved from the system. Or maybe he was just tense enough. Dean wouldn't- couldn't- know. "If you want to... I mean, I-I could wait." Sam's denial of self didn't. set right in him. Was this the same boy that had looked at him with those pleading eyes? The same boy had enough hope to pursue a better life, after a whole year? Dean couldn't stomach it. "Sam, listen. We're only going if you wanna. So, we gonna starve forever or are you gonna talk?" When Sam goes a bit pale, swallows, Dean immediately knows he's gone too far- but it's worth the end result. "We-We can go, Dean, I'm- We don't have to-" "Sam!" Dad always snapped Dean out of his madness. Maybe it'll do the same for the ghost of a boy shuffling along beside him. Sure enough, he stopped walking, looked up at Dean wide-eyed and shocked. "I'm hungry." Though the nausea at making Sam like that sat heavy in his stomach, it was worth the answer, worth him saying outright what he needed... Wasn't it? The boy's shoulders shook, and he set them back out of a slouch in an attempt to hide it. Dean said nothing, and Sam looked at the ground the whole way to the restaurant they would eat at. It was one of those Tex-Mex places, which provided them with enough scenery t distract themselves with. The walls were brightly colored, punctuated with paintings and decorations. All the oranges and reds caught Sam's eye, kept him occupied until it was time to order. Neither boy paid any attention (a struggle for Dean) to the waitress save to order, despite the obviously flaunted curves and way she leaned to retrieve the menus. While Dean got a taco bowl and coke, Sam just got a quesadilla and water. Dean couldn't help but wonder why he didn't get more. **** Sam's head was spinning whywhywhywhy- had Dean continued to be so nice? Why is he not fucking him in the- whywhywhy how- was he so collected and kind? Sam saw right through it, soon enough he'd be writhingandtearfulunderneath- Dean's whore. Dean's or a new city's. 'You've gained weight,' someone had said just two nights ago, 'since I last fucked you. See?" He couldn't stand Dean saying that. So he'd just have to restrict again. Not too bad, right? Sure. The quesadilla was small. So small, in fact, that Sam felt compelled to swipe one of Dean's chips and a generous helping of toppings just to appease Dean. Speaking of... Why wasn't he drinking? How old is he? He looks to be in his mid-twenties and is built like a god- but he can't think like that. Can't want him back. He studies Dean as if he'll find the answers to all his questions somewhere in those green eyes. Green, like the jolly rancher, like apples, like- "How old are you?" Sam forces the words out, interrupts his thoughts. Glad that Sam's talking to him, a smile spreads across his face. "Twenty." Sam nods, says, "I'm sixteen." He's got a proud tone, like it's got to do with status. Maybe it did. But.. Sixteen? He could be arrested for kidnappinggodforbidohno- The panic must've registered in Dean's face, because Sam quickly added. "It's okay, though. I'm dead." Another chilling pride. "Dead?" Sam laughs softly, stirs his water with his straw. "They faked my death. I died in a fire." Dean's not sure how to react, but Sam seems to be unconsciously begging him to see this as a good thing. Now, Dean can do whatever! There's no search party! Sam died last year! Maybe Dean should've evaluated this situation before jumping into it. "Sam.." He says hesitantly, voice gentle and low. All the desperation drains from the kid. "Why do you think I took you out of there?" The boy pauses, regards Dean carefully. Was this a trick question? How was he supposed to answer? Howhowhowhow- "Just give me your opinion, kid. It's alright." Dean tries to be reassuring, but it doesn't seem to have any effect on Sam's anxiety. "I-I think you're taking me... To a-a-another track." He immediately looks down, lets out a deep sigh. Oh god. "No, no, Sam. I'm never taking you to another one of those.. I wanna help you, okay? We can get you on your feet, we can keep you safe. Alright? Now tell me what's happening." Dean's eyes stare intently into Sam's, demanding an answer. Demanding he believe. "You... You're trying to help?" Sam's head is still a bit tilted, seeming almost hopeful. A small smile plays at Dean's lips. "That's right, Sam. I'm trying. We'll- You'll get through this. I don't know what's going on in that head of yours- and I won't ask- but if you ever need to talk, I'll be here for you until you wanna be on your own. And then I'll give you somewhere safe." Sam swallowed thickly. Dean's offering to let him on his own. Has anyone done that before? Not unless it was a threat... He took a calculated bite of his quesadilla. Then, voice shaky, he whispers, "I don't want to be alone." The concept was terrifying and alien. Once, in another life, his emancipation form layed optimistically on his desk, right beside those Stanford packets. But, then, it all quite literally went down in flames. "That's okay." Dean says, trying very hard to not regard him as a kicked puppy, "There's a spare room at my place. You can have it." Dean pushes the taco bowl toward him, and he doesn't hesitate this time to take one. "Really?" Where else, Dean wonders despite himself, would he expect to sleep? "Of course." The bill is dropped nonchalantly on their table by a likely disgusted waitress- thinks they're gay, Dean'll bet- and Sam slips his remaining cash into the little folder. "You didn't have to-" "I want to." Sam cuts him off, giving him that grave intensity again. Well. Dean smiles, lets out a prideful chuckle. "Alright, then. Come on, let's go." "Where?" Sam inquires, making Dean's heart swell with that head tilt. Oh, no. No affection here. "How about we take some pictures? The flight out is tonight, so-" Shit. Fucking shit. "Flight?" "We can miss it. It's fine." Dean declares, striding along. "We'll just drive." Sam stops in his tra- place, says faintly, "We're going? Already?" Dean's blood ran cold. Who does he think he is, picking up a sixteen-year-old and dragging him around... Like property. "No, I- No. It's okay, we won't. But... We can't stay in a motel forever." He's careful, quiet. The cars and people around them do not exist- they've crafted a bubble of reality between them. "What do you say we rent an apartment?" Dean allows himself a slight smile. "We can do that. Yeah. We'll get on that tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you happy now edilioooo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i now understand why most writers have a post day.
> 
> chapters will become more regulated as i formulate a schedule.

Dean had never seen a boy so hollow.

He looked like a corpse sent again to the gallows, standing in wait for the ground to be pulled from under him. He was ghastly pale- Dean didn't know it, but it was from nightmares and blind stumbles to the bathroom to throw up his guts. Waiting; Sam was indeed waiting for the ground to be stolen away, to be awoken by groping and reminders of who owned him. He needed rules, or he would let his knees give out and tighten his own noose. Of course, he'd never be given rules, or regulations. Never would he be forced to kneel or to choke, to swallow or sob.

Sam was clinging to the rules of trick-turning, and it was so picturesque that Dean couldn't breathe sometimes. Photographing him would be such a betrayal and that knowledge made him choke on his thoughts harder than Sam did on come that first time.

(It'd been all over him.

He'd stared helplessly up at the man he'd been sucking off, shocked and dirty, and was still rigid as he'd been told things he was too out of it to hear. Beaten, he'd be beaten for this, he thought.... But the beatings never came. In fact, it was that night Sam learned of preference. The man's chest rose and fell at the same rate as Sam's, but while the latter was terrified the former was starting to get hard again at the sight alone. 

 He'd pulled Sam from the ground, and with their bodies pressed together, Sam brought the guy to release until he got well past his money's worth.)

 

 

* * *

 

Another lesson on preference came, a blessing, at the homes.

There were lots of them, such an ample amount of choices: big and small, grand and modest, dirty and pristine. Worthy of Dean and worthy of Sam.

Dean wouldn't settle on something shabby. The man came from money and had created a nest egg so big it could house the universe. Sam mused it should have corrupted him, but the money just broadened Dean's modest horizons, and made him such a saint that he'd taken a sinner from the streets, bought a place with him.

In fact, he went so far as to glorify him. They'd tried place after place, some in which Sam had truly liked, but Dean always insisted he deserved better until finally  _finally_ , Dean relented to Sam.

It was overwhelming, purely shocking, to be given that strong of a sway. It made Sam's head spin and, admittedly, a smile cross his face. 

"How about this one?" Sam had asked as they wandered through an above average, sunny condominium. It was one wooded floor, two bathrooms, three bedrooms, and somehow fitting. It was the warmth to Sam's permanent cold, the security he never thought he'd ask for again. The kitchen was a place Sam could easily imagine dwelling in whilst Dean was at work, cooking fancy meals with money that'd never run out. Legally dead perk: no school. The place brought light to his eyes that Dean wanted to take a picture of, capture it forever, just for him. It would hang in a gilded frame; it would adorn Dean's life one day.

Although, the frightening concept of the fluttering in his heart made him conflicted, he'd owned it in that moment. Sam was a stifled beam of light, ready to shine through the darkness if only he'd been given the chance.

* * *

 The next morning was the flurry before an impending snow storm.

Sam had been restless all night- thrown up after a nightmare and never went back to sleep- and was even more corpse like than usual. He stumbled around their room and almost passed out during breakfast. Dean was hesitant to take him out, what if they ran into a pimp? A john Sam had fucked? Again, the nausea strikes, but Sam had insisted. He'd _wanted._

Who was Dean to deny him what he wants?

Sam fell asleep on the drive. It was to a restaurant a county away, one Sam swore by. This unnatural feeling of devotion had Dean both nervous and needing to make the kid happy. 

The devotion, he realized, wasn't that bad. He was a bite into lasagna when he realized this, of course, but still. The lasagna was worth it. Emotions led him to food for once. 

Sam ate in silence, eating considerably less than Dean but more than he seemed to be capable of.

While watching him eat, stopping sometimes to brush locks of hair from his face, Dean found himself embracing the affection for a fleeting moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brace yourselves
> 
> posts every alternating sunday

Dean wasn't sure if Sam was excited or nervous- he rocked back on his heels whenever he stood idle- but he didn't dare ask and risk making the kid self-conscious. Whatever it was, he just hoped that the smiles he was being flashed would last; they felt like blessings from a god Dean wasn't quite sure even existed. No, Sam isn't a blessing- he's the god. He's the god and the sun and moon and every twinkling blaze of a star- and Dean might combust if he gets too close. Not only that, but the inevitable collapse of any star and the eclipse of the sun or moon was constantly looming over them 

The questions made Dean uneasy beyond belief, and the only thing that kept him from the sensation of emotional drowning was Sam and his smiles. There were dimples on his cheeks, though they were as slight as his form, and Dean knew they'd get even cuter and more pronounced as his weight creeped up into the healthy zone.

But, for now, he found the light in the kid's sullen face.

There was a happiness, though guarded, that Dean lived to see in Sam. 

Now, in the dawn light, Dean sees that glow as they pack.

Sam's small frame doesn't look so fragile this morning; in fact, he looks almost inspired, but Dean wouldn't kid himself into thinking it was progress. Anyone could have a good day, but not everyone could heal in a set of days or weeks or months. It could very well take years for him to stop flinching and seeming like a bird with its wings clipped. Dean would stay by his side through it all, though, no matter what it took. Sam would need someone, and even if that someone was being a perverted mess (falling for Sam? Oh god.) 

Dean didn't speak to him until he deemed him stably happy. 

They drove on comfortable silence, Sam's fingers tapping at his knees to the radio's music. It was systematic yet natural seeming, but Dean didn't think too hard on it. 

The smile on Sam's face was a miracle in itself, a wonder of the world, a fucking beauty.

At a red light, it occurred to Dean that he hadn't been taking pictures; seven crows lined up on a power line, the symmetry and stillness something he would've marveled at if the light hadn't turned green and Sam hadn't drawn it to his attention. 

 When Sam brought him back to reality ( _Dean it's green_ ) he glanced over, and had to swallow down the rock of bile and simultaneous flutters. What was so attractive about this boy? This battered, broken boy? Maybe it's just the recognition, the fact that he's captured moment after moment of things like this, situations and poor souls and beautiful scenes.

It can't be love; no, love is slow, love is a process that one cannot fall into so fast.

* * *

 "Where's that kid? My usual?"

A soft sigh comes from the other end of the line, and the impatient john taps his fingers on his knee. They'd better not have lost him. He'd make their lives hell, and when they found that boy....

He'd be in hell, too. 

"Booked up. Should've got him while you could, not spent your time with those other bitches." There's a note of panic he stores away for later. 

"I'll pay you a thousand." He smirks, lights a cigarette. What excuse could he give, to get out of a grand?

"Look, we're all-"

"You lost him." That's what he thought. A drag of nicotine couldn't quell the anger he harbors.

"We're working on it, okay? Just- just keep giving me shipments and I'll let you have him half price."

* * *

 

Sam's smile, Dean thought, was a wonder. He said it before and he'll say it again, it's a miracle and Dean would die without it.

In bed that night, he was too busy being blissful to even check on Sam.

In deep hindsight, that was a bad idea.

 

Sam's phone rang at one, while he was hunched over a paper of once blank sheet music he'd swiped from his school last time he went and now revised religiously to this day. 

Not even prayer made him feel as secure as he did when he heard the melodies in his head, but all that dissolved as the soft chime sounded from his phone.

"Hello?"

His blood ran cold at the voice. He'd anticipated it, but wasn't ready for it. "You gonna play hooky forever, wait for us to tell you down? You know we will."

Sam swallowed. He couldn't go back, but couldn't put Dean in danger. "I'm willing to compromise."

A chuckle sounds from across the line, sending trails of shivers down Sam's spine. "And what does that mean?"

It means Dean's gonna feel betrayed. It means Sam will be a dirty whore again. He tries to level out his voice as he says, "It means I'll give you weeknights."

Dean will be at work then, and hopefully he'll never have to find out.

"It's a deal. Better keep it.'

 

Even though it killed him, he kept up a smile that Dean knew deep down was fake the next day. Monday; tonight he'd be gone.

Breakfast, he skipped, but Dean allowed it because Sam need his space and Dean needed to develop his photos. So, he went and did that, took Sam out to lunch, and was gone by dinner.

 

A jacket, a tight shirt, jeans.

A wallet that could hold the world and energy shots.

Sam was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> easter eggs everywhere, dear readers
> 
> next chapter we'll see pretty much hell, but if it's safe for your mental health, read it.
> 
> out of respect for sam and the real-world victims, we need to expose this great evil, and we'll never do it if we don't understand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this whole schedule thing is hard.
> 
> we don't really do much this chapter, we'll ease into it :)

~~~~Sam feared for his heart, thought it might combust; it crashed like stormy waves against the shore of his chest. It was ravaging away, tearing things apart. Above the lights and music and suspicious sex sounds, the beats punctuated a vignette and the pounding was all he could hear.

It was above the body against his again and again and again, above the lube and come from a million men. If he counted the beats, he could zone out. However, if he thought of nice things, the world dissolves. All that matters is Sam and his headspace. Nothing else exists.

It was the beach in November last year, June was sledding, spring was finally letting go. But now... Now Sam thinks of Dean, Dean and his full pink lips against him and a body made of muscle. He thinks of his smile, those calloused hands and how good they'd feel against his. 

A man against him, a man thrusting hard with minimal lube and, oh, it hurts... But Sam thinks of Dean, and his mind is somewhere else entirely. He's in bed with Dean- these images arousing attraction he couldn't fathom- and his body reacts miraculously. 

His arms wrap around this john, this lowlife paying so little, and he  _moans._ Fuck. It's not even him anymore... It's Dean. It's Dean he's being fucked by, consumed by, bruised by, and he finds himself liking it; he likes anything Dean does, he realizes that now. "Like that, bitch?" The gravelly voice rasps, and Sam  _nods._ How vile, to be so enraptured by an older man. Well, it's only four years, but still. 

God help him. 

And God help Dean, who will have to deal with Sam and his mind. Sam and his bitch-heat mind. Lust or love, Sam didn't know, but it's all the same. Sex is love, love is sex, and there's no division one could argue of. 

The sex is something sinfully ethereal, and he wasn't sure what to think of it. A desperate distraction? A real feeling?, A drunken figment? No idea. 

He just... Liked it.

How could you not enjoy sex with your... Crush? Fuck. He didn't know.

All he knew was that it was a coping strategy, and a damn good one. He used it all night long, all through the beatings and the fucking, the drinks and the drugs.

He stopped at a gas station on the way home (he's got a home!) to wash off the sex and scents. The water was cold, nice against the heat of everything, and he loved the feel of cleanliness. 

He loved freedom more than anything, even if it was conditional.


End file.
